You May Kiss the Bridesmaid

by Camilla Isley

  “Are you all right over there?” I ask.

  Summer blushes and scrambles back, sitting on her heels.

  Miranda comes next to us. “Is everyone okay?” she asks, and when we both nod, she adds, “It’s perfectly normal to fall a few times when you’re trying out these new poses for the first time. Class, I think we’re done for today. How about a final stretch before I let you go have breakfast?”

  Good, I think. A cool down is exactly what I need right now.

  Once the class is over, I almost expect Summer to walk off, leaving me behind like she did yesterday. But she lingers instead, and we walk together toward the breakfast room. To an outsider, our attitudes would come across as completely innocent, but, again, the shift compared to yesterday morning, when all Summer wanted to do was to shake me off, is incredible. Now she doesn’t have a problem being at the croissants table at the same time as I am, brushing her shoulder against mine. At the coffee machine, she lets me lean into her from behind, my chest pressed to her back, as I reach for the creamer. Yesterday, she would’ve bolted like a startled deer.

  We sit at the same table as yesterday, with the same companions. But again, Summer’s stance couldn’t be any more different. Instead of trying to avoid my gaze at all costs, she gives me flirty eyes from across the table for the whole meal.

  It’s the sweetest torture. Makes me want to skip the stag snooze fest—err… party—and bring her back to my room. She knows it, and she knows I can’t, and she’s messing with me, playing a little game of hide and seek.

  We all get up to leave together, exiting the breakfast room and then lingering in the hotel’s lobby. Tucker swears; he’s forgotten his phone at the table and goes back to pick it up.

  The bride and groom take the opportunity to kiss goodbye before a day of forced separation. With Winter and Logan distracted, I seize the moment and return the teasing favor to Summer.

  I pull her behind a corner and press her against the wall. It’s a risky move. Anyone could walk by and spot us, but the danger of being caught makes it all the more exciting. I lean in closer, my lips a breath away from hers. I sneak a hand onto her neck, my thumb caressing the skin behind her ear in that way I discovered makes her moan every single time. She has to bite her lip not to now.

  Aha, before starting to play the game she should’ve remembered I practically invented it.

  Never kissing her, I whisper, “I guess I’ll see you later,” and walk away toward the elevators just as Logan and Winter break their kiss. Tucker still hasn’t returned, and Logan and I agree to wait for him.

  Summer turns the corner after me and follows her sister into the first available elevator, looking adorably flustered: swollen lips, pink cheeks, and big eyes filled with desire.

  I’m congratulating myself for winning this round when she, eyes never leaving mine, slowly tilts her head backward in a seductive gesture while her hands reach up to untie her ponytail. Her long hair cascades down her shoulders in a mesmerizing effect just as her lips part a little. It’s a show, all for my benefit. One second before she disappears behind the elevator doors, her parted lips curl up in an evil little grin, leaving me burning in hell.

  Eleven

  Summer

  The phantom of Archie’s lips is still on mine as I enter my room, and he hasn’t even kissed me. The way he pressed me against the wall left my body itching all over, and the worst part is I will have to wait all day to scratch.

  To relax the lust a little, I spend forever in the shower and, when I exit, I comb my hair in a plait while it’s still damp. Since we were kids, Winter and I learned this is the most effective hairstyle to go riding. Leaving your hair loose to catch the wind at a gallop might be scenic, but brushing the knots afterward is a total bitch. Not worth the spectacle.

  For the same reason, I wear a pair of stretch jeans, a comfy J. Crew V-neck sweater, and sporty ankle boots—the best alternative to proper riding boots. For a ride, it’s always best to wear shoes with small heels so they catch on the stirrups and my feet won’t slip through.

  Lana preemptively texted us hens to come to the bachelorette in sporty casual clothes, and I hope everyone listened. A riding ground might seem like an odd location to host a bachelorette party. But since coming back from Thailand, my sister hasn’t stopped complaining about how we never go riding anymore since Grandpa passed. So, Lana and I thought this would be the perfect occasion. Not to mention that hairy, four-legged studs will make Winter happier than any stripper ever could.

  I finish getting ready well before the designated departure hour, but wait until the very last second to exit my room. Today, I won’t be able to avoid bumping into my ex-friends, but I’ll still try to delay the inevitable as much as I can, and plan to cut the interactions as short as possible.

  Gosh, I need another coffee. I brew myself a cup, smiling as I remember doing the same for Archie a few hours ago. When I’m out of time and excuses to stay hidden in my room, I move down to the lobby.

  The bachelorette party bus is already waiting outside and hard to miss. The vehicle is thirty feet long and painted in a rather distinctive bubble-gum pink. Lana outdid herself. I would’ve never thought of renting something so obnoxiously fun. Heck, I didn’t even know they made pink buses.

  A familiar pang of regret twists my chest. And for a moment I cannot breathe, remembering once again all the pain I caused Lana. Mourning the friendship that will never be the same, even after she’s forgiven me. My face heats with shame like it does whenever I think about Johnathan and the affair. I hate what I did, I’d give anything to go back in time and change it. But I can’t. The guilt will haunt me until I die. All I can do is own my mistakes, take the lesson home, and do better in the future.

  Just as these thoughts writhe furiously inside my head, I lift my gaze and meet Daria’s cold stare for the first time since The Mistake. Her mouth curls up in a vicious smile, while she gives me a brief, one-handed wave, saying, “Oh, so you’re really here. Haven’t seen you around much.”

  Susan is at her side, foaming at the mouth to see how I’ll react.

  I could wave back and disappear inside the bus, but what’s the point? I can’t avoid them forever.

  Time to face the music.

  I walk straight to them, closing the short distance between us.

  “Hi, Daria.” I nod at her and then at Susan. “Susy.”

  Both nod back, half-surprised, half-curious, as if I were an animal in a zoo and they were trying to guess my next move.

  Daria can’t help herself—she was never the stay-quiet type—and speaks first. “Long time no see.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I’m sorry. I wanted to apologize to both of you for disappearing, but after what happened, I was too ashamed to face anyone.”

  Daria seems surprised at my words, but her gaze doesn’t get any less chilly. She also isn’t the forgiving type. Even if we don’t stand a chance of ever being anything more than casual acquaintances, I still owe her an apology.

  “I did an unforgivable thing, and I knew how you’d feel about it and was too much of a coward to confront you.”

  “Fair enough,” she says. “And what’s changed now?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I just want to avoid any drama for my sister’s sake. No matter what you think about me, this is her wedding, and I don’t want her to worry or feel obligated to come to my rescue.”

  “No problem,” Daria says, with that permanent resting bitch face. “We know how to behave ourselves.”

  The “contrary to you” postscript is clear in her tone.

  “Great,” I say, looking at Susan. She shrugs in a half-apologetic way, as if to say, “I might forgive you in time, but Daria would never allow it, so I have to pick sides and I’m not on yours.”

  “That’s all I wanted to say,” I conclude. “See you around.”

  I leave them to no doubt gossip behind my back and head onto the bus. We have to leave in
five minutes anyway. I go for a seat in the rear as usual, sitting down with my temples still pulsing from the nasty exchange I just had outside.

  I hope today will pass fast.

  The wish has been barely expressed when my phone pings with an incoming text from an unknown number.

  Eager to find out who it is from, I read the message.

  Hope you don’t mind, but I finally found a good use for the “Winter and Logan Tie the Knot” WhatsApp group Tucker created

  My stomach does a silly, adolescent flip. Archie searched for my number, and he’s texting me.

  Even if I feel as agitated as a teen replying to her first crush, I keep my reply super cool.

  Oh, gosh, that group

  I mute it every week

  With everyone on board, the bus leaves the parking lot just as Archie’s reply comes in.

  Every week? I muted it for a year straight off the bat

  A year?

  LOL

  That’s badass

  But makes sense, you never replied to a single text

  I didn’t even know you were in the group

  Sorry, but the first time Tucker asked us to help research the meaning of flowers and come up with suggestions for the floral arrangements, I had to bail

  But that was a great assignment

  I suggested Gardenias

  They’re wedding-white and bringers of joy

  I remember

  I read the chat from time to time

  How weird that I’ve been texting Archie for a month without ever realizing. Did I write something majorly uncool? I’m tempted to go back and re-read the entire thread, but his next text comes in, preventing me.

  How’s it going over there?

  The bus is already pulling up at our destination, the riding ground. Wow, that was quick, I barely noticed we were moving.

  I read the question again. I could tell Archie about my earlier conversation with Daria and Susan, but I don’t want to spoil our chat. Soon I’ll be out in the fresh air, riding. And I’m pretty sure only my sister, Lana, and I will make it to the more advanced group—LA isn’t famous for its riding grounds, and I bet we’re the only ones to have ever been on the back of a horse before. My family, from my mother’s side, is originally from Indiana, and my grandparents used to own a ranch near Bloomington. When we were little, Lana, Winter, and I would spend many summers on the farm doing all the Midwestern activities California kids probably never learn: how to ride a horse, how to shoot rifles, crossbows, and every other weapon known to mankind. Or, more harmlessly, how to milk a cow. All important life skills.

  Most people, Daria and Susan included, will be stuck in the beginners’ practice ring, riding a pony held on a leash by the instructors, while I’ll be taking the scenic ride out of the manège.

  No need to ruin my day obsessing about people I no longer care about and who no longer care about me, except as meat to grind in their gossip machine. I opt for a flirty reply, teasing Archie with the same double entendre I tortured Logan with last night:

  We’re about to meet the studs

  Studs?

  I was led to believe these would be very PG 13 hen and stag parties

  What do you mean?

  No strippers for you?

  The only thing this bunch would be interested in seeing stripping is a mummy

  And only so that they could properly analyze it and date the corpse to the right Pharaonic era

  Ew

  No, seriously, what are you guys doing?

  Gourmet lunch aboard a historic train car while we reach more wineries to have tastings at

  Yawn

  You gals?

  Once all the hens are gathered in the riding ground courtyard and the pink-mobile is gone, the manager comes to greet us. After a short welcoming speech, he asks us to raise hands accordingly to our riding experience and, as predicted, it’s just me, my sister, Lana, and two female archeologists from Logan’s half of the invitation list in the advanced group.

  We follow a boy to the stables where he introduces us to our rides. I’m with Thunder, a beautiful gray stallion. I pat the horse and caress his muzzle, whispering small words to get him used to my voice. And while we familiarize with each other, I compose a quick reply for Archie.

  I’ve just met Thunder

  He’s going to be my ride today

  Archie replies with a yellow emoji holding its chin questioningly.

  That’s a very bad name, even for a male stripper

  I chuckle; time to put the guy out of his misery. I lean my face next to my equine companion and snap a selfie. I caption the pic: Archie, meet Thunder

  Archie’s reply is a head-exploding emoji.

  In the background, the tour guide calls for everyone who’s going on the long ride to gather at the trail entrance. I grab Thunder by the reins and guide him out of the stables, following behind my sister and Lana’s rides.

  Before mounting, I compose a quick text for Archie.

  We’re about to leave

  The guide has asked us not to use our phones while on the trail

  They have a history of people getting distracted and falling off their horses

  Talk later?

  I’ll be gone for about two hours

  A reply comes within seconds.

  Those are going to be two long hours

  His words make my heart flutter. Even more when they’re followed by a cat-face emoji blowing me a kiss. This guy is unbelievable. So big and strong, with the bad-boy bike and everything, sending me kiss-blowing catmojis. I shake my head. He’s sure full of surprises.

  I store my phone in a saddle’s pocket made for this specific purpose, and then place my right foot into the corresponding stirrup to haul myself atop Thunder.

  The ride is as scenic and filled with breathtaking vistas as advertised. Once we come back to the ranch, we are spoiled with a perfect pairing of estate wines served with an assortment of cheeses, charcuterie, spreads, fruit, and nuts.

  Honestly, Napa is ruining wine for me. How will I ever go back to drinking regular, run-of-the-mill wines? My palate is getting used to America’s best.

  Unbidden, my treacherous brain follows that same train of thought, but in a different, dangerous direction. How will I ever go back to dating regular, run-of-the-mill guys? Archie is the Cabernet Sauvignon of dating. He’ll ruin men for me.

  In search of a distraction from these disturbing thoughts, I finally pay attention as the estate’s sommelier explains the tasting notes of the vintage we’re sipping now.

  “You’ll find rich flavors of blackberries and black plum, dried herbs, sweet oak spices, vanilla bean, and toasted almonds. Take another sip,” the sommelier instructs. “Appreciate how all these aromas unfold in mesmerizing layers, sending a wave of deliciously intense complexity across the palate in a tasty expression of power and elegance.”

  But hearing the wine’s merits is no use as a diversion. My mind keeps associating everything with Archie. In the few short days I’ve known him, I’ve realized Archie has just as many layers of complexity as the wine in my glass. He can be both sweet and strong. But also the most attentive, considerate, well-mannered man, only to transform into a sexual animal two hours later. Still alert to my every need, but definitely not poised about satisfying them. And those washboard abs. I know it’s a superficial feature compared to his other qualities, but, gosh, I’ve never seen abs so defined in real life. The muscles are so hard I could grate any of these cheeses on them. And ours is just a fling so it’s okay for me to be a little superficial and relish the most perfect six-pack I’ll ever touch.

  “Most of these characteristics,” the sommelier continues, “can be attributed to the magical nature surrounding us. Here, our grapes thrive on ideal soil and perfectly balanced weather conditions with just the right amount of sunlight and rain.”

  Mmm. That makes me reflect on how I don’t know much about Archie’s
background. My knowledge stops at the groom-related basics: he and Logan met in college and stuck together ever since, merging their friendship with their professional lives. But what of his life before college, of his family, or of where he went to high school? Who was his first kiss? Why did he major in Geography in college? I want to discover all of this and more about him. Will I have the time? A few days seem too short a period to satisfy my curiosity.

  “But good soil is not all it takes to make superb wine,” the sommelier carries on. “There’s a science to turning perfect grapes into a perfect wine. First, we hand-harvest them with three stages of strict sorting: on the vine, then by individual clusters, and then again by single berry following the de-stemming. The grapes that make the cut are then moved into traditional French oak tanks for cold soak, fermentation, and extended maceration…”

  I zone out as the explanation continues. My thoughts return to Archie, and I can’t help but cringe as I contemplate the number of women it took to make Archie such a great lover. If a Cabernet Sauvignon takes twenty months of barrel aging to reach its final, perfect blend, I wonder how many years Archie had to play the field to become as skilled as he is today?

  And why do I have to obsess about his past? Can’t I just enjoy the final product?

  Yes, I can, and I should. But again, just as with the wine, I’m getting used to the best and it will be hard to go back to dating ordinary men. That is, once I’m ready to dip my toes in the dating pool again.

  Mmm…

  I bet no one can grow a beard as soft as his.

  Oh, do we like beards now? a little prickly voice asks in my head.

  Not beards, plural, only a very specific one.

  Hon, you sound like someone who’s bitten off more than she can chew, the voice replies.

  I sigh, silently agreeing with my conscience.

  Twelve